Just the brightest stars

Are visible

In the dark, charcoal grey,

Pre dawn, sky.

The air is cold, calm.

Except for twigs snapping

Below our feet

As we walk to the boat,

There is no noise.

It is the sound of an empty church.

His movements are unhurried, sure.

Soon we are putt putting the small aluminum motorboat

Into the still lake.

He knows every drop off,

Every sand bar.

Where every bass, pike,

Walleye, perch,

Has taken his bait.

 How often

Has he started his day like this?

How many hours

Has he spent

In the dark and dawn

Of this corner of this lake?

We bait our number three hooks

With fat, slippery, dark brown,

Night crawlers.

Our cold fingers

Left in dirty slime.

Lines in the water,

We sit quietly, drifting,

Watching the tips of our rods,

A meditation of soft ripples.

 He sits in repose.

His face, square,

Strong, wise, kind;

Jowls of age,

Black and white whiskers

Awaiting a shave.

A loon awakes, piercing the quiet.

A tip of sun is almost visible

Behind the eastern tree tops.

Pink orange brush strokes

Light the sky.

He has a bite.

With great patience,

He gives the fish

A few seconds of run.

Then sets the hook

With a sharp snap of the rod.

I know,

Even if you were awake,

You would not understand

A word I am saying.

You, with your fine soft hair,

Tiny, chubby, perfect, fingers.

Sleep on little man

As I hold you to my heart.

Grow strong, wise, kind.

My new pal,

Soon we will share

Books, blocks, ballgames.

But,

I do wish

You would have had the chance

To go fishing

With your great grandfather.